Whipped
by Nyte Quill
Summary: "I am not your horse, Mr. Blythe." when Gilbert let the riding crop fly and Anne felt the sting through the layers of clothing, she felt something else too. and she wasn't the only one... CH 3 UP! this is based on the movies, not the books.
1. Whipped

The flowers and dew-slick grass that lined the lane created an earthy perfume, but nothing rivaled the essence of the fiery beauty standing before him. They'd been walking along discussing her misery over being published for an advertisement, when he had expressed his candid thoughts about her story. Judging solely from reaction, one might have thought he'd insulted her child rather than pointed out the faults in her fiction.

She practically sniffed her dismissive disapproval and tossed her comment over her shoulder as she started to walk away. "I don't share your opinion."

Gilbert wasn't thinking straight. If he were, he'd never have done it.

But Anne had the ability to make him ignore reason, abandon sense, and lose himself in action without thought. The whip whistled softly through the air before he realized he'd moved, and it lashed squarely across her backside with a pronounced thwack!

She stiffened, and he swallowed. Then she turned, fire flashing in those brilliant hazel eyes of hers, and a blush blooming across her cheeks. She was stunning when she was angry.

"I am not your _horse_ Mr. Blythe!"

"I was... just trying to give you a bit of friendly advice."

Her tone was breathy but disbelieving, and the quiver it held sent a delicious shiver down his spine. "Is that so?"

* * *

The facts were these. Gilbert had been half in love with Anne the day they'd met. He'd fallen the rest of the way when she smashed her slate over his head.

He didn't know why, but for him, love and pain went hand in hand. They always had, when his mother paddled him for being naughty, or his father had taught him to box and sent him through a stable wall by accident. During Josie's first kiss with him, she'd been so enthusiastic she bit his lip. The taste of blood had nearly undone him, but Josie had been all flustered apologies and teary eyes and they hadn't kissed again. She was wonderful at ordering him around, but he chafed under her bossiness as much as he craved it.

After Anne shattered a piece of his world, his daydreams had turned to obeying the orders of a certain redheaded temptress. Listening to anything she cared to say in that melodious voice of hers. Watching her eyes flare with emerald when she got really worked up. Kneeling at her feet and lavishing attention on the hollows behind her knees.

What Gilbert didn't know - _couldn't_ know - was that Anne had thoughts of a similar... slant. Buried beneath the fluffy layers of romantic twill she kept stuffed in her head, lay a dark chocolate layer of sinful somethings she tried never to think about. But in the middle of the night, when she couldn't think of anything else to think about, they tumbled out of the cabinet she locked them in and ran rampant through the fields of her mind.

She loved the smell of chalk and leather and freshly washed linen, but these things were not normal in her dreams. She thought of making boys write "I am stupid, Anne is wonderful" over and over on boards while they stood in their pants. She felt soft cotton strips between her fingers as she blindfolded and bound someone tightly; if that someone often had windblown raven curls, she never dwelled on it. She felt the warm weight of a leather whip in her palm, and heard the whistle as she let it fly, and somehow knew the shudder of the recoil where it struck and the metallic scent from the line of blood it drew.

And when Gilbert struck her with his riding crop- honestly they were _forever_ arguing- a thrill had raced up her spine like an electric spark. She'd gone stock still to assess how she felt about it, to see if he did anything else. Everything in her had gone tight like a bowstring, from the skin around her eyes to the nipples beneath her dress, from her fingers on the basket handle to the space between her thighs. Her toes had even curled in her boots.

In her dreams, _she'd_ always been the one in control- an element so often lacking in her waking life. But the concept of relinquishing control to someone else, and actually enjoying the exchange? That was something wholly foreign... and something she knew she'd have to try someday.

**A/N: you know the deal. whether you liked it or not, let me know below.**

**also, this was imagined as a T-rated oneshot. if it continued, it might go to M. any interest?**

**A/N2: edited and hopefully improved. and to clarify, this is based on Megan Followes and Jonathan Crombie in the movie series. **


	2. Sweet Dreams are Made of This?

Despite the chill of the pre-dawn, the barn at Green Gables held a warm scent. Of bodies and clean straw.

He was on his knees before her, wearing only his trousers. Those impossibly blue eyes looked up at her, and even with the dainty lace handkerchief stuffed in his mouth, she thought he was smiling.

Then without warning, he was above her. She was flat on her back, pinned beneath the long weight of his body. Canvas-covered straw pillowed her head, and her body cradled his. His breath was warm against her cheek as he panted, and the tip of his nose brushed hers as he leaned closer. She felt his burgeoning arousal pressing into her hip, and her breath caught in her throat.

"Anne…" he breathed, the softest hint of a groan in his voice.

"Gilbert…" she whispered back, but her gaze faltered in her new position. She couldn't meet his eye if she wasn't looking down at him; she might never understand why. Even when he towered above her, she squared her shoulders and tipped her head back so she could glare down her nose at him. The effect was impressive sometimes. It had to be when you were so much shorter than other people- she barely topped most of her students- and an orphan to boot. Even though she'd been a part of the Cuthbert family for a while now, there were still people who persisted in reminding her of her origins.

Not Gilbert though; no matter who he had in his company or anything she threw at him, he never did. He treated her with a bizarre level of respect, one that she sometimes felt she had to rise to accept. Hardly anyone could make her feel inferior anymore, but Gilbert could make her question his treatment of her, and whether she were truly worthy of it. Never intentionally, but it was one of the things that made her perpetually nervous around him.

Of course constantly thinking of him on his knees before her, or his naked form flitting through the fields of her imagination contributed to the unease as well. They were great companions, but uneasy friends- Gilbert for wanting something more, Anne for wanting something else. They each constantly waited for the other shoe to drop, braced themselves for the destruction the winds of change might bring.

But here in the darkness, alone together (Anne's favorite paradoxical statement), they simply were. The base, core elements of themselves that were shrouded from the world lay bare to each other. It was not love or happiness; it was liberation.

At the moment, it was half naked and panting in the darkness and Anne felt her control – over herself and the situation – slipping like silk on ice. He was still leaning in, a fraction of a millimeter at a time. She could count each lash rimming his blown pupils, even as his eyelids slid closed. His breath was kissing her lips, and she felt her eyes sliding closed too, her lips puckering to close the gap, her hands skimming the smooth cool skin of his back...

Then she woke up, panting and shivering- though not from cold. With a groan, she slid back onto her pillow and pulled it over her head. Damn. How was she supposed to face Gilbert today without blushing, after another dream like that?

**A/N: Yep. I continued. if you're liking it, let me know. I'm working on something from Gilbert's POV. and there might be something after that... if anyone is still interested.**


	3. Any Way You Want It

She was practically in his lap, balanced gently across his thighs but still bearing her own weight. Her fingertips swept over his jawline, her thumb caressing his cheek as she curled her lips up into a smile. "So tell me… what is it you'd like me to be? Shall I be kind… gentle… sweet?" She asked, punctuating each quality with a soft press of her lips to his face, but avoiding his mouth. Then the look in her eyes changed, taking on the cold shimmering hardness of a gemstone/emerald, and she stood. He instantly mourned the loss of her pressed so close.

The fingers of one hand slid up and over his shoulder, caressing the skin at his nape before sliding into the dark silky locks. Her nails grazed his scalp and he shivered at the sensation. They traced and trailed all the way forward to his hairline before she spoke again. "Or…" and her fingers tightened in the hair at his crown, making him wince as she dragged his head back. She completed her question once his ear was steady near her lips. "Would you rather I make you beg for mercy?"

The words were spoken hot and insistent in his ear, and he couldn't determine what required his focus more: the pain radiating through his head or the tingle slipping down his spine to his rapidly hardening erection.

She could do anything she wanted to him; if he'd been standing when she'd yanked on his hair, he'd have been on his knees in a heartbeat. But still, she was giving him the choice of what she would give him. Even though she was the one in control, she was relinquishing the power of choice… seeing if he wanted it or not.

The thought was a heady one, like a shot of brandy, but the thought of release and submission, of seeing exactly how far she can go… did things to him he can't explain but still desperately craved.

She eased her deathgrip on his hair to walk back around him, but watched him carefully with every step. He let his watering eyes close, and simply breathed, "The choice… is yours."

Gilbert's eyes snapped open as he shot bolt upright. His skin and sheets were soaked with sweat, so he flung the covers off and went to the window. A cool breeze was blowing off the Gulf, and he closed his eyes as it washed over him like a wave.

The dreams had been coming with a surprising frequency lately. Seeing Anne again on a regular basis, so grown up yet still trailing bits of that charming orphan waif, was cutting up his peace like a knife to a sheet. He _craved_ her like a morphine addict, except that indulgence wouldn't be bad for him. And despite his resolution to not pursue until she gave him a sign of encouragement, he still ran headlong into situations with her around- and almost invariably jammed his boot in his mouth as a result.

One of these days, though, he promised himself, she'd look at him with that tender glow she had the day in the field when he'd given her the Avonlea school. True, it was partly the sunset bathing her in gold and copper, but the gratitude shimmering in her eyes had lit her from within, and he'd basked in that radiance long enough to brush an errant curl and caress her cheek. It was heaven. And currently he was in the torment of a delicious hell- although if someone didn't save him soon, he was going to burn to death with need.

A shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to with the chill his body had now relaxed into. He wanted her, he needed her, and by the gods he would have her. One day.

He eased the window closed- no need to risk pneumonia. Tossing a length of toweling over his damp bed, Gilbert settled in with a sigh, preparing for a long wait until the fingers of dawn stole through the window and gave him a new chance to claim her for his own. And in the meantime, he could dream. Oh yes. He could _dream_…

**A/N: it's continuing. I hope you're happy. it was Gilbert's turn for a little nocturnal fever.**  
**not sure where I'm going with it, but if you're liking it, leave kudos and comments and I'll do my best.**


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